Dublin Doors

Most modern cities reach up so high, they block out most of the sky. In Dublin, the sky is part of the landscape, at first blustery with cold winds and bitter rain, then the clouds whisk away to release streaks of clean sunshine that make the landscape glow. Yesterday we walked, past old stone buildings, rows of brownstones (if that is what they are called here), through parks and over a canal that feeds to the sea. The new urban design is ancient here, with street-level shops below living space decorated with oversized window sporting flower-filled window gardens. Instead of skyscrapers, the buildings are human scaled and most weathered with age. An ancient church is decorated with rare gargoyles and bas relief sculptures that are almost indistinguishable with age. And yet, walking over ancient stone sidewalks, an electric train silently slides by.

We stumble upon a professor lecturing a group of students about Irish history in St. Stephen's Green and follow meandering paths that lead to a center couryard filled with sculpted flower gardens, just missing the peak blooms of tulips. Everyone is young and in love, it seems. Up a weathered stone stairs we see a couple lost in each other's arms. Beside the water another couple seem to whisper secrets.

The streets are in use, but not crowded. As we walk we hear accents from all over the world, so many, in fact, that my brain becomes lost in the sea of cultures. Although I normally can tell a French accent from a Spanish one, I start getting confused. Lovely lilting voices all blend together into a symphony that is Dublin English.

Grafton Street is bustling with activity and shops that mostly seem filled with tourists. We see shops of Irish goods, linens, woolen sweaters, plaid caps. But Alan is looking for a cellphone repair shop. As we walk, a lovely young Chinese woman offers a free acupuncture consultation. My shoulde is aching, so I take her up on it and agree to a 45 minute session of acupuncture, massage and cupping. When it is over, I feel a little better and she talks me into massage oil and some herb to reduce inflamation. Fifteen pills twice per day for a month.

Next we see a sign for the Book of the Kells, one of the most ancient Christian texts in the world. Held at Trinity College (around since 1592) we view four books and an impressive series of educational exhibits that tell how ancients texts were made and what they mean. Afterwards we are fed through the Long Room, a lovely arching library filled with thousands of old books from notable and less notable authors. A series of worn busts depict famous authors including Jonathan Swift and Cicero. Outside we see lilacs in bloom and I pick up a light purple head that has fallen in the shrubbery. It's sweet scent takes me back thirty years and i bring it to my nose again and again throughout the rest of our walk.

On the way back we head toward Oscar Wilde park, really Merrion Square. Again, winding private paths filled with birdsong lead to a umber of grassy areas with sculpted flower gardens and again, we see the deadheads of tulips as well as a few stragglers to show us what we missed. It is beautiful anyway with other flowers in bloom, including pale azealias. Two kiosks near a sculpture of Wilde reclining on a rock are carved with his more memorable sayings about love, life and boredom. As we pass out of the gardens we see a stature of Thomas Collins, depicted in the middle of a shout. A man and a little boy approach. Alan had captured them walking toward us in the shadowed lane. "Did you take our picture?" he demands. "Yes," Alan says. "Can I have a copy?" I see Alan breath out in relief. "My name is Thomas Collins, too." We enjoy a companiable hour of Irish history, learning how Collins' negotiations with the English led to years of civil war and the revolutionary's eventual assassination.

By now it is close to sunset and the wind is picking up, threatening more rain. We stop by a number of pubs that dot the streets on the way back, but can't find any that serve food. "It is a bank holiday," we hear, although that doesn't clear things up much to us. Alan photographs the brightly painted doors, framed by a never-ending variety of intricate glass designs. We eat Malaysian food and then I fall into bed, exhausted and content.